uly it looks not well
that you should thus strive to keep him apart, and therefore the King
requires to see him instantly."

"Sir Frenchman," replied Osmond, "your King claims the Duke as his ward.
How that may be my father knows not, but as he was committed to his
charge by the states of Normandy, he holds himself bound to keep him in
his own hands until further orders from them."

"That means, insolent Norman, that you intend to shut the boy up and keep
him in your own rebel hands. You had best yield--it will be the better
for you and for him. The child is the King's ward, and he shall not be
left to be nurtured in rebellion by northern pirates."

At this moment a cry from without arose, so loud as almost to drown the
voices of the speakers on the turret stair, a cry welcome to the ears of
Osmond, repeated by a multitude of voices, "Haro! Haro! our little
Duke!"

It was well known as a Norman shout. So just and so ready to redress all
grievances had the old Duke Rollo been, that his very name was an appeal
against injustice, and whenever wrong was done, the Norman outcry against
the injury was always "Ha Rollo!" or as it had become shortened, "Haro."
And now Osmond knew that those whose affection had been won by the
uprightness of Rollo, were gathering to protect his helpless grandchild.

The cry was likewise heard by the little garrison in the turret chamber,
bringing hope and joy. Richard thought himself already rescued, and
springing from Fru Astrida, danced about in ecstasy, only longing to see
the faithful Normans, whose voices he heard ringing out again and again,
in calls for their little Duke, and outcries against the Franks. The
windows were, however, so high, that nothing could be seen from them but
the sky; and, like Richard, the old Baron de Centeville was almost beside
himself with anxiety to know what force was gathered together, and what
measures were being taken. He opened the door, called to his son, and
asked if he could tell what was passing, but Osmond knew as little--he
could see nothing but the black, cobwebbed, dusty steps winding above his
head, while the clamours outside, waxing fiercer and louder, drowned all
the sounds which might otherwise have come up to him from the French
within the Castle. At last, however, Osmond called out to his father, in
Norse, "There is a Frank Baron come to entreat, and this time very
humbly, that the Duke may come to the King."

"Tell him," replied